The Killer Wore Cranberry

by J. Alan Hartman

  Under the circumstances, Tom did better than might be expected. He had the place, the date and the event perfectly correct. Except for arriving three hours late for Thanksgiving dinner, no one noticed anything unusual.

  If Tom’s brother, Harry, had stayed quiet it’s likely that everyone else would have simply greeted Tom and Susan without questioning them about their arrival time. Had Harry’s wife, Joyce, not been on a diet, she would not have commented three hours earlier on how much turkey Harry consumed. Anyone who diets while others are feasting can be excused for feeling thin-skinned and puckish. Without the combination of Joyce’s frustration and Harry’s overeating, it’s probable that the evening would have proceeded with the smoothness of a mirror. But Joyce had been irritable. Harry had stuffed his gullet.

  Of course, Harry was not about to admit that his food intake was excessive. He did, however, consume less turkey and more vegetables than he otherwise would have. Thus he avoided some of the tryptophan and carbohydrate overload that would have put him in dreamland. Had the football games been more boring or the commercials even more frequent, Harry might have nodded off anyway.

  In an early football game the Boilermakers and Fighting Artichokes engaged in a heated struggle for pigskin supremacy that boiled out of control after a bad call. Both benches steamed onto the field, delaying the game. Then the Boll Weevils and the Banana Slugs chewed up yardage through regulation time and the game ended up in triple overtime.

  Even so, Harry would have limited his jocularity to Penny’s new boyfriend, Ethan, except that Ethan correctly called the winner of every football game on television that day, bankrupted Harry in a marathon game of Monopoly, shot the moon three times in Hearts and challenged Harry when he misspelled a word at Scrabble.

  Harry greeted Tom with, “Why are you so late? Did you forget how to read a clock again?” Harry and Tom still argued about whether Tom had been late to a party Harry threw as a college freshman.

  “You told us the wrong time,” said Tom.

  “Wrong time? I didn’t invite you. If I had, I would have told you the wrong day so you wouldn’t show up at all.”

  Ethan’s presence would have stopped the confrontation but he was in the bathroom making out with Penny.

  “If you invited us, we wouldn’t come,” said Tom.

  After three attempts Harry managed to rock back and forth hard enough to propel his mass up from the couch. He lurched over to Tom and poked him in the chest.

  “You aren’t good enough for Susan.”

  “Yeah? Well, you must have gotten Joyce as drunk as you usually get or she would never have married you.” Tom returned the poke with a push. Harry wobbled and wiggled but he was able to stay erect.

  A shouting match ensued.

  Penny urged Ethan to mediate but he was delayed because his pants and socks were both turned inside out.

  Observers disagree about who threw the first punch. Tom and Harry rolled on the carpet hissing and scratching like two alley cats disputing whose turn it was to howl. Except for the disagreement, the new carpet would have remained pristine. The family had been careful not to spill a drop of food or drink. Unfortunately, saliva, blood spatter and part of a tooth marred the carpet’s perfection.

  Tom remembered his high school wrestling and pulled off a double-leg takedown. Harry imitated Mr. Exceptional who wrestled on television. He attempted an airplane spin. They both hit the floor with a splat. Grandpa Oliver thought it was the best show he’d seen since an oil refinery caught on fire and exploded four years ago. He watched the fray from behind a recliner. Grandma Gladys, sitting in a kitchen chair, shook her head and kept knitting. Neither Tom’s figure-four leg lock nor Harry’s sleeper hold could restrain his opponent. Ethan, whose hair was mussed, whose shirt was buttoned one buttonhole off and whose socks were inside out, separated the two gladiators.

  Ethan pushed Harry down to the deepest part of the couch where Harry would require outside assistance to rise. He turned to Tom.

  “Hello, my name is Ethan. I came with Penny. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  Ethan extended an open hand and Tom shook it.

  “My name is Tom. Sorry about the ruckus. We’re usually much better behaved.”

  “You should see our Bennett family reunions,” said Ethan. “Three sisters in their nineties get a snoot full and start arguing over which one their mother liked best.”

  Harry floundered on the couch.

  “You two must be starving,” said Gladys. “Why don’t you come into the kitchen? We left the food out for you.”

  The turkey, green bean casserole and pumpkin pie had cooled. The salad and iced tea had warmed. Tom sat down, grumbling. Every time he thought he heard Harry, Tom would stare in the direction of the living room. Gladys chatted with them briefly and left to talk with other family members.

  “Gladys, where is your special stuffing?” called Tom from the kitchen.

  Oh, I’m sorry, it got all eaten up,” said Gladys. “You know what a pig Harry is.”

  Tom rose from the table. He stood stiff-legged, nostrils flaring and teeth clenched. If he had been a dog the hair on the back of his neck would have stuck out.

  If Ethan had still been present, Tom would have called Harry a few uncomplimentary names and then cooled off. Unfortunately, Ethan and Penny had retired to the back of Ethan’s German luxury E-Class wagon. They had resumed what had been so suddenly interrupted. The wagon rocked.

  Susan said, “Don’t do anything you will regret later. You know it was partly my fault we were late. I forgot to call Joyce to check on the time.”

  Tom grabbed his wife by the back of her head and forced her face down into the family-sized bowl of creamed corn, a side dish that Joyce brought every year. She claimed it was a treasured family recipe even though no one in the family could recall anyone even tasting the multi-colored gelatinous food that smelled like mothballs. If Joyce had brought corn on the cob, Susan would have been fine. If Susan had followed her chiropractor’s advice about doing regular neck exercises, she could have saved herself. If Gladys had returned to the kitchen in time she could have cooled Tom off or screamed for help. Unfortunately, by the time Gladys returned, Susan had suffocated in the creamed corn. Tom’s attempts to wake Susan up failed. Grandpa Oliver called the police and eventually convinced them he was not joking.

  Tom looked shocked and confused when the police took him away in handcuffs. Harry got irritated when the current football game got interrupted for news about the tragic events at a local family gathering, even though the Ducks and the Terrapins both showed a toothless defense.

  Everybody said it was a shame. Harry got the cold shoulder for the rest of the night even though he insisted he had been the first in the family to recognize that Tom was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. By the next Thanksgiving, Penny and Ethan were married. They brought their three-month-old daughter, Mercedes, to the celebration. Joyce made electric-indigo-colored Delaware creamed succotash. She claimed it was made according to a fabulous old family recipe. It bubbled intermittently and smelled like a chicken coop. Nobody ate any.

  Diminishing Returns

  By Lee Hammerschmidt

  “Quite the spread, Trish,” Crease said as he pulled a lump of stuffing from the south end of the cooling organic, free-range turkey and popped it in his mouth.

  “Mmm…delish, Trish,” he mumbled as he chewed. “You’ve really outdone yourself this year. What’s that crunchiness?”

  “Chia seeds,” Trish said. “They add texture and flavor, and they’re good for you, too.”

  “Ah, New Age stuffing,” Crease said as he grabbed another mittful and packed it in his pie-hole.

  “Jesus, Crease,” Trish snapped. “It’s bad enough that you pick at the food before dinner, but do you have to shove your fist up that bird’s ass to do it?”

  “Hey, it’s no worse than cooking it in the bird’s ass in the first place. Oooh…prosciutto-wrapped fingerling potatoes! My fave!”


  “Crease, cool it!” Too late. Two of the appetizers flew into Crease’s gaping maw. He grabbed one of the bottles of Oregon Pinot Noir that was breathing on the counter, poured himself a big glass and chugged it down. He let out a huge, wet belch and slammed the glass down, nearly breaking the stem.

  “Crease! Our guests will be here in less than half an hour. Can you please control yourself until then?”

  “I’d love to, dear,” Crease said as he poured himself another glass of vino. “But I can’t stick around that long.”

  “What are you talking about? You can’t stick around? It’s Thanksgiving, for Christ’s sake! Just how much wine have you had anyway?”

  “Not that much. But yet, not enough. It’s just that things could get a little awkward if I was here when your sister shows up. You know, with the impending divorce and all.”

  “My sister? Divorce? What are you babbling about? My sister’s not married so she can’t be getting a divor…oh. Oh, my!”

  Trish grabbed a glass, poured some wine of her own, tossed it back and got a refill.

  “So, you’re saying…” Trish said.

  “Yep. You and me, doll. Splitsville. I went and done the dirty with your sis. A despicable and unforgivable act of infidelity and betrayal. And if you don’t believe me, take a gander at these.”

  Crease pulled an envelope out of his back pocket and slid it along the counter toward Trish. She scooped it up and pulled out the contents…multiple photos of Crease and her younger sister, Tess, in various contortionist configurations of flagrante delicto! A sexual Cirque de Soleil, if you will.

  “Holy shit, Crease!” Trish barked, flinging the photos at him. “I can believe you would screw my sister, sure, that little tramp. And having photographic, ah, memoirs, yeah, all right. Though you usually are more of a video guy.”

  “Got that, too!” Crease beamed.

  “Of course. Nevertheless, what would possess you to show them to…ME! I’m your wife. Have you lost your frickin’ mind?”

  “Not at all. We have a prenup. No matter what I do, whomever I hump, whatever kind of moral turpitude I commit, I’m still gonna get my cut.”

  “Your cut?”

  “Yep. According to our legal and binding prenuptial agreement I’m entitled to thirty-three percent of your net worth should we decide to terminate our marriage.”

  “And you’ve decided to terminate our marriage.”

  “Correct! And what do we have for her, Jay?”

  Trish downed her second glass of wine and as history repeats itself, she filled ‘er up again.

  “Why now,” Trish asked. “Why now, Crease, after eight years of moderately happy marriage and efficient if sometimes pedestrian carnal activity, do you want a divorce now?”

  “Diminishing returns.”

  “Diminishing returns?”

  “You got it, Babe. According to my advisor, your worth has basically topped out. Oh, I mean sure, it could still go up over time. Gradually. But that isn’t really time I’ve got to waste right now. It’s time to get out of the Trish Market at its peak and resume my acting career.”

  “Your acting career!” Trish yelped, her chin almost on top of her casual, yet stylish TomsTM. “What acting career? You’ve done a couple of commercials and one Lifetime Network movie.”

  “Yes, who could ever forget Dial “N” for Nipple Rings? That’s where we met!”

  True. Trish had been the caterer during filming and Crease had been always pestering her about his dietary restrictions. One thing led to another and, well…memories.

  “Well, as I recall you haven’t done shit since,” Trish said.

  “Only because I put your career ahead of mine, sweet cheeks. But with all this new publicity, my advisor assures me my career is about to take off.”

  Trish guzzled some more pinot, trying to get a handle on the situation.

  “Okay,” she said. “Just who is this ‘advisor’ of yours giving you all of this alleged financial and career advice?”

  “Guy named Trask,” Crease said, matching Trish with another hefty gulp of his own. Man, if these two didn’t slow down, there might be reconciliation in the works and all bets would be off.

  “Trask?” Trish said. “Trask? Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “He was in the news a few years back. Supposedly he was some enforcer or button man for a local racketeer. He was up before the grand jury on multiple counts of assault, intimidation, kidnapping, public urination and…the Big M…murder!”

  “Oh, yeah, Trask. He was never indicted as I recall.”

  “Nope. But the publicity was a gold mine. He opened his own investigative and security consulting business and it took off.”

  You got that right, Trish thought. There is no such thing as bad publicity. Unless you’re in the food business.

  “I met him on an audition awhile back. Remember The Manilow Manifesto? He was a technical consultant for the show. We got to talking about things and I ended up hiring him.”

  “So you hired him to get evidence against yourself in your own divorce case.”

  “Exactly. Plan A. After the long holiday weekend, you’ll probably want to go and file those divorce papers pronto and be rid of my lazy, shiftless, no good cheating ass.”

  “Plan A” Trish said. “Well, what if I’m in no hurry to lose thirty-three percent of my assets? In fact, I may just take my sweet time in filing those papers. How ‘bout them apples, asshole?”

  Crease shook his head in the classic tsk-tsk gesture. “Then I guess we just have to jump ahead to Plan B.”

  “Plan B.”

  Crease reached into the side pocket of his special, festive holiday blazer and pulled out a heavy object wrapped in a handkerchief. He slid it across the counter toward Trish and flipped off the handkerchief, revealing the .38 Smith & Wesson revolver that Trish kept in her purse for protection when she was catering a movie job in a sketchy area of town. Or in the financial district. He then reached into the other blazer pocket and pulled out an evil-looking vintage German Luger.

  “Plan B. Which is really the option I was hoping for. It’s much more lucrative. As you recall, shortly after we were married you took out a 1.5 million dollar life insurance policy on yourself so in case anything should happen to you, I wouldn’t have the financial burden of the house and your business expenses. Very thoughtful.”

  “Blinded by the light of love,” Trish said. “You weren’t quite the colossal asshole then that you are now.”

  “We all need to grow over time.”

  Trish looked at the Luger in Crease’s hand. It was pointing directly at her midsection.

  “You can’t be serious!” Trish said. “You think you can shoot me for my life insurance and get away with it? You’re totally delusional!”

  “Not at…all,” Crease said, rubbing his stomach. “It’s…urp, perfect.” Whoa, that stuffing wasn’t sitting right.

  “The…the way it goes down…” Man, he was starting to feel feverish. And there was this burning sensation in his gut. Antacid, ASAP! Carry on Crease, carry on.

  “The way it works,” he continued, trying to ignore the burning in his stomach, “is that YOU hired the P.I. to get the goods on ME. You confronted me in our kitchen right before our guests were to arrive for Thanksgiving dinner. You pulled your .38 on me. But I was quicker on the draw and shot you first. Self…self-defense.”

  Oh-oh. Things were making a beeline for Crease’s evacuation route. From previous episodes, he knew it was only a matter of minutes before his bowels transformed into Niagara Falls. Better finish this up quick.

  “Wha, what did you say was in that stuffing?” Crease asked, sweating bullets, so to speak, and doing his darndest to keep his butt cheeks clenched. “Chia seeds?”

  “Oops,” Trish said. “That’s not the batch you were supposed to have. Yours is in the turducken, which is still in the oven. It’s three birds, you know, so there’s a longer cooking time. The stuffing you’ve been poundin
g down is for those without dietary restrictions.”

  “You…you mean?”

  “Yep. Those ain’t chia seeds, Chief, they’re crushed peanuts, and the bread crumbs are not gluten free.”

  “Not…gluten…FREEEEE!” Crease howled, almost doubled over now, the cramping so intense. “You know I’ve got celiac disease! And peanut allergies! Goddamn you, you fucking bi…”

  Crease’s tirade was interrupted by the hot stream of turkey juice that Trish shot into his face from the baster lying in the pan of the cooling bird.

  Crease howled in agony as the scalding liquid scorched his mug. He raised his pistol blindly toward Trish, but dropped it to the floor suddenly as Trish slammed the large fork from the carving set into his gun hand. She snapped a sharp, hard left jab onto the bridge of his nose and followed it with a quick, powerful front kick to his ballsack, dropping him to the floor like a bag of bricks. The physical pummeling, along with the food allergy issues, left him no choice but to flash the hash all over the floor while simultaneously filling his britches. He lay there, convulsing and spent.

  The doorbell rang. Trish left Crease in a heap and went to answer it, returning just seconds later with the two guests who had arrived.

  “Well, well, Crease,” the tall, beefy, male guest said. “Looks like something didn’t agree with you.”

  “He looks like shit warmed over,” the female arrival said. “Whew! And he smells like it! Oh, gross! There’s puke, too!”

  Crease looked up from the floor at the two newcomers.

  “Trask? What are you doing here? With Tess?” Crease said.

  “Hey, Happy Thanksgiving, Buddy,” Trask beamed. “Trish invited me!”

  Well, that did it. His bowels were shredded, his scrotum was inside his asshole, his nose flattened, and now his mind was totally blown.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Crease,” Trish said. “I thought you knew. Trask is our second cousin. Or third, I can’t recall.”

  “Second cousin!” Crease said, looking at Trask as he pulled himself up off the floor by the kitchen drawer handles. “You set me up, you bastard!”